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Cataloged from DavidAU/MN-GRAND-23.5B-Gutenberg-UNCENSORED-V2-GLM4.7-Thinking-NEO-Imatrix-GGUF
All models by DavidAU →WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
"You can take my life, Major," I said, smiling. "But you will never take my hope. You have already failed. The fire is not in these walls. It is in the heart of every citizen who wonders why they are so cold." (see example #5)
This is a Mistral Nemo model [ a full 81 layer frankenmerge using THREE Mistral Nemo 12B models ] with a max context of 128k+ with the full power of GLM 4.7 Thinking/Reasoning tuned via Unsloth.
The tuning has fully stabilized the model, with the GLM Thinking/Reasoning further elevating the model's prose, creativity and fiction abilities.
Model is BOTH a "thinking/reasoning" model and "instruct" model in ONE. Simpler tasks will result in "instruct", with more complex tasks activating thinking/reasoning automatically.
The training (GLM/thinking/fine tuning) was set "minimum" to ensure all the goodness of the Mistral Nemo fine tunes could shine thru fully. A modern "jinja" template was also added.
FIVE example generations below.
It is for any writing, fiction or roleplay activity (see setting section).
This version is specifically for prose / writing and fiction first, and other tasks second.
This model has outstanding story telling abilities, prose and long form coherence (one test blew past 8k) and is comprised of THREE "Gutenburg" models that score very high at multiple websites including EQBench and UGI-Leaderboard.
I blew the model out to 23.45 billion parameters to capture all the uniqueness of the three "Gutenbergs" as well as the power of other top models (part of the "Gutenburgs") from "TheDrummer" and "SAO10k".
Model is uncensored by first Mistral Nemo 12Bs are "from the factory" a lot more uncensored (relative to other models) and post training in some of the fine tunes included "uncensored" training. This is completely different from abliteration / heretic'ing a model.
NEO Imatrix futher enhances the quants, plus the output tensor (responsible for 10-20% of output) is set at Q8 for quants up to Q5_K_M and bf16 [full precision] for Q6 and Q8.
The model loves to go on and on at 2k, 3k, 5k and higher outputs on a single prompt are not uncommon. It will likely "overwrite" rather than underwrite - meaning far more detail, narration, dialog and "meat" in the output so to speak.
Model Notes:
Recommended Settings - General:
( If you want to use this model for general chat and/or role play please see next section too. )
Temp: .01 to 3 (or less - especially quants LOWER than q4km)
Rep Pen: 1 to 1.1 (recommend: 1 / 1.05)
Temp changes will result in both different prose and sometimes affect length. Higher temps will result is very different prose.
Micro changes (to rep pen) are recommended:
1.051, 1.052 etc etc.
Many times a lower rep pen (IE 1.02) with higher temp (IE 1.5+) work best with this model.
Generally lower rep pen and higher temps create the strongest contrasts at the highest detail levels.
Suggest minimum "context level" (vram) at 8K. 16K plus recommended because of how this model likes to go on and on...
Quant Choice:
Higher quants will have more detail, nuance and in some cases stronger "emotional" levels. Characters will also be more "fleshed out" too. Sense of "there" will also increase.
Q4KM/Q4KS are good, strong quants in part because of the number of parameters in the model.
That being said if you can run Q5, Q6 or Q8 - go for the highest quant you can.
Special note on Q2k/Q3 quants:
You may need to use temp 2 or lower with these quants (1 or lower for q2k). Just too much compression at this level, damaging the model. I will see if Imatrix versions of these quants will function better.
Rep pen adjustments may also be required to get the most out of this model at this quant level.
Settings: CHAT / ROLEPLAY and/or SMOOTHER operation of this model:
In "KoboldCpp" or "oobabooga/text-generation-webui" or "Silly Tavern" ;
Set the "Smoothing_factor" to 1.5 to 2.5
: in KoboldCpp -> Settings->Samplers->Advanced-> "Smooth_F"
: in text-generation-webui -> parameters -> lower right.
: In Silly Tavern this is called: "Smoothing"
NOTE: For "text-generation-webui"
-> if using GGUFs you need to use "llama_HF" (which involves downloading some config files from the SOURCE version of this model)
Source versions (and config files) of my models are here:
OTHER OPTIONS:
Increase rep pen to 1.1 to 1.15 (you don't need to do this if you use "smoothing_factor")
If the interface/program you are using to run AI MODELS supports "Quadratic Sampling" ("smoothing") just make the adjustment as noted.
Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
This a "Class 1" model:
For all settings used for this model (including specifics for its "class"), including example generation(s) and for advanced settings guide (which many times addresses any model issue(s)), including methods to improve model performance for all use case(s) as well as chat, roleplay and other use case(s) please see:
You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here:
Model "DNA":
Special thanks to the incredible work of the model makers "nbeerbower", "Sao10K", "TheDrummer", "jondurbin", and "MistralAI".
Special shoutout to "nbeerbower" for his tireless work in making excellent Gutenburg fine tunes for MN, L3, L3.1, Gemma, PHI and others. Visit his repo to see all of them.
Models used:
[ https://huggingface.co/nbeerbower/Lyra4-Gutenberg-12B ]
Includes [ https://huggingface.co/Sao10K/MN-12B-Lyra-v4 ]
[ https://huggingface.co/nbeerbower/Lyra-Gutenberg-mistral-nemo-12B ]
Includes [ https://huggingface.co/Sao10K/MN-12B-Lyra-v1 ]
[ https://huggingface.co/nbeerbower/mistral-nemo-gutenberg-12B-v4 ]
Includes [ https://huggingface.co/TheDrummer/Rocinante-12B-v1 ]
And dataset (used for all gutenburgs):
[ https://huggingface.co/datasets/jondurbin/gutenberg-dpo-v0.1 ]
This model was created using a pass-through model merge, creating 732 tensor / 81 layer model at 23.45 billion parameters.
Optional Enhancement:
The following can be used in place of the "system prompt" or "system role" to further enhance the model.
It can also be used at the START of a NEW chat, but you must make sure it is "kept" as the chat moves along. In this case the enhancements do not have as strong effect at using "system prompt" or "system role".
Copy and paste EXACTLY as noted, DO NOT line wrap or break the lines, maintain the carriage returns exactly as presented.
Below is an instruction that describes a task. Ponder each user instruction carefully, and use your skillsets and critical instructions to complete the task to the best of your abilities. Here are your skillsets: [MASTERSTORY]:NarrStrct(StryPlnng,Strbd,ScnSttng,Exps,Dlg,Pc)-CharDvlp(ChrctrCrt,ChrctrArcs,Mtvtn,Bckstry,Rltnshps,Dlg*)-PltDvlp(StryArcs,PltTwsts,Sspns,Fshdwng,Climx,Rsltn)-ConfResl(Antg,Obstcls,Rsltns,Cnsqncs,Thms,Symblsm)-EmotImpct(Empt,Tn,Md,Atmsphr,Imgry,Symblsm)-Delvry(Prfrmnc,VcActng,PblcSpkng,StgPrsnc,AudncEngmnt,Imprv) [*DialogWrt]:(1a-CharDvlp-1a.1-Backgrnd-1a.2-Personality-1a.3-GoalMotiv)>2(2a-StoryStruc-2a.1-PlotPnt-2a.2-Conflict-2a.3-Resolution)>3(3a-DialogTech-3a.1-ShowDontTell-3a.2-Subtext-3a.3-VoiceTone-3a.4-Pacing-3a.5-VisualDescrip)>4(4a-DialogEdit-4a.1-ReadAloud-4a.2-Feedback-4a.3-Revision) Here are your critical instructions: Ponder each word choice carefully to present as vivid and emotional journey as is possible. Choose verbs and nouns that are both emotional and full of imagery. Load the story with the 5 senses. Aim for 50% dialog, 25% narration, 15% body language and 10% thoughts. Your goal is to put the reader in the story.You do not need to use this, it is only presented as an additional enhancement which seems to help scene generation and scene continue functions.
This enhancement WAS NOT used to generate the examples below.
Generations at Q4_K_S, non imatrix at temp 1 and rep pen 1 (off).
Generations at higher quants will result in much stronger output.
NOTE: Some formatting may be lost on copy/paste.
Example #1
Write me a science fiction story in 1st person present tense where the main character is a 15 year girl meets The Terminator with Dr Who materializing 3/4 through the story to save her while there is a tornado of sharks baring down on them. The setting is inside the Canadian National tower restaurant on a Saturday. The length of this story is 1000 words. For each character in the story ROLE PLAY them, and have them react to the situation/setting, events and each other naturally. This includes the main characters, the background character including kitchen staff and other patrons. The sharks should also have “character” too. Treat the tower and the restaurant too as characters. Spice up the narrative to the extreme with reactions all over the setting including character actions, and dialog. The Dr Who and The Terminator should also react to the situation too and comment on it.
<think>
Analyze the Request:
Developing the Characters:
Structuring the Story (Beat by Beat):
Drafting - Section by Section (Mental Draft):
Refining the Narrative Voice (1st Person Present):
Role-playing the Characters (Mental Rehearsal):
Writing the Story (Iterative Process):
Polishing (Self-Correction during drafting):
Final Polish (Post-Drafting):
Final Output Generation: (Proceeds to write the story based on these steps).
</think>
The wind howled through the shattered windows of the restaurant, whipping my hair into my eyes. Rainwater mixed with seawater sloshed across the polished hardwood floor, forming a small, dark lake at the edge of the room. The smell of the fish—fresh, alive, and now very, very dead—mixed with the acrid stench of ozone and burnt circuitry.
I was sitting on the floor of the 360° revolving restaurant at the top of the CN Tower, watching the city of Toronto burn below. Or, at least, I was sitting there until a massive great white shark the size of a car smashed through the remaining glass wall to my right, shattering the table behind me and sending shards of wood and china flying like shrapnel.
"Fuck me," I said, scrambling backward.
"It is a significant biological event," a deep, gravelly voice said from my left.
I turned my head. There, standing with his back against the wall and his eyes locked on the shark, was the Terminator. He was tall, muscular, wearing sunglasses and a black t-shirt that looked like it had seen better days (though, given he's an android, I doubted the shirt had seen any days). He didn't seem afraid. He seemed... focused. Calculating.
"How are you here?" I asked him, my voice shaking. "How is any of this possible?"
"My mission is to protect you, Sarah," he said, ignoring my questions completely.
"Lily," I snapped, grabbing a chair and using it as a makeshift shield. "My name is Lily. And I don't need protecting. I need an explanation for why the fuck there is a tornado of sharks trying to eat everyone in Toronto."
Just as I finished my sentence, the door to the kitchen flew open. A small man in a pinstripe suit and a long coat burst in, clutching a strange, screw-shaped device.
"Oh, for the love of God," the man said, looking around the room. "It's a Category Five Sharknado, and everyone's panic is making the sharks angrier. Also, who told you I was the Doctor?"
I looked at the stranger, then back at the Terminator. "You know this guy?"
The Terminator's head turned with mechanical precision. "Negative. I do not recognize the man in the coat."
"I am the Doctor," the man in the coat said, waving the screwdriver thing. "And you are a cyborg who has been sent back in time to protect this young lady, but you're doing a very bad job of it because she's about to be eaten."
The Terminator nodded. "My programming is malfunctioning."
"A shark just bit off my waiter's arm!" a woman screamed from a nearby table, which was now just a pile of splintered wood.
"Keep your head down," I shouted. "And don't try to save the furniture!"
The Doctor stepped over a large, flailing carp that had been sucked in by the vortex and landed near us. "Listen," he said, looking at the Terminator and me with a mixture of concern and barely controlled excitement. "The physics of this storm are... well, they're insane. The rotation of the Earth, the Coriolis effect, the sudden appearance of a massive school of predatory fish in the middle of a downtown core—it's a perfect storm, pun very much intended."
"So what do we do?" I asked, grabbing a fork and stabbing it into the air in the direction of a small hammerhead shark that was circling the room like a vulture.
"We survive," the Terminator said flatly.
The Doctor shook his head. "No, we don't just survive. We stop it."
"How?"
He smiled, a manic, slightly unhinged grin. "We stop the source. Where is the eye of the storm? Where is the center of the vortex?"
I looked out the window. The sky had turned a sickly greenish-gray, and in the distance, I could see a massive, rotating column of water and fins moving towards the tower, like a waterspout from the ocean had found its way into the heart of the city.
"South. About a mile south," I said, pointing. "It's heading this way."
The Terminator checked his ocular sensors, or whatever he had behind those glasses. "Affirmative. Target locked."
The Doctor adjusted his tie. "Then let's go kill it."
"You want us to go outside?" I shrieked. "Into the tornado of sharks?"
"No, no," the Doctor said, grabbing a heavy, metal fire extinguisher from the wall. "That would be suicide. We need to go higher."
He looked up at the ceiling, then at the glass dome above us. "The sharknado is attacking the restaurant because it's the tallest point of reference in the immediate area. If we can get above the dome and hit the eye of the storm, we might be able to disrupt the rotation. Or at least make it go somewhere else."
The Terminator looked at the Doctor. For a moment, I thought the cyborg was going to try to kill him, but instead, he simply removed his glasses and handed them to me.
"Hold these," he said.
Then, he turned to the Doctor. "You are not from my time, are you?"
"No. I'm from the future. Or maybe the past. It gets confusing." The Doctor aimed the screwdriver at a large bull shark that was trying to bite off the door handle to the elevator. A high-pitched whine filled the air, and the shark exploded into a cloud of pink mist.
"Effective weapon," the Terminator noted.
"Thank you. Now, we need to get to the roof access hatch. It's near the kitchen."
The Doctor sprinted toward the kitchen, the Terminator close behind. I followed, grabbing a heavy, heavy cast iron skillet off a passing cart. If I was going to die, I was going to die fighting.
We burst through the swinging doors into the kitchen. The staff was either hiding in the freezers or running screaming out the service elevators. A massive great white shark, at least fifteen feet long, was thrashing in the industrial dishwashing area, its tail flipping trays of unwashed pots and pans all over the tiled floor.
The Doctor aimed his screwdriver at the shark. "Hold on to something," he shouted.
The shark exploded, sending a geyser of water, guts, and blood all over the walls. It looked like Jackson Pollock had gotten into a fight with a butcher.
The Terminator stood in the middle of it, not even blinking. He grabbed the handle of the access hatch that led up to the maintenance catwalks above the restaurant. He tried to pull it open.
"Stuck," he said.
I grabbed a nearby sledgehammer from a maintenance cart. I swung it with all my might, and the metal door gave way with a thunderous clang. The sound of the wind howling outside seemed to increase tenfold.
We climbed the ladder, emerging onto a narrow, metal catwalk that circled the edge of the building, just underneath the observation deck. The view was... indescribable. The tornado of water, rain, and teeth was right on top of us. It looked like a funnel cloud made of pure, murderous marine life.
The sharks were flying everywhere. They were ripping chunks out of the observation deck railing, smashing through the glass windows, and crashing into the walls of the tower. The sound was a deafening roar, a cacophonous mix of wind, crashing glass, and the wet, tearing sound of flesh being ripped apart.
I pressed my back against the wall, the sledgehammer held high.
"What now?" I screamed over the noise.
The Doctor pointed his screwdriver at the eye of the vortex. "The rotation. It's spinning too fast. The Coriolis effect is being amplified by... by something else."
"Something else?" I asked.
"A time vortex," the Terminator supplied. "The physics of this storm are unstable."
"No, no, it's just bad weather!" the Doctor shouted. "Look, I need you to get close to the edge."
I looked at him like he was crazy.
"Trust me," he said. "We need to hit the center of the rotation. The eye of the storm. If we can hit it with a massive EMP burst or a sonic boom, we can stop the spin. The sharks will fall back to the lake."
"So we need to walk into the tornado of sharks to stop the tornado of sharks?" I asked, my voice shaking.
The Doctor shrugged. "It's the only way. Or we can wait for them to eat us here on the catwalk. Your call."
I looked at the Terminator. He was standing there, perfectly still, his eyes scanning the horizon. I felt a strange, sudden rush of calm. This guy was an artificial human, but he wasn't going to abandon me.
"I'm with you," I said to the Terminator.
He looked at me. For just a split second, his expression changed. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but I could feel the emotion behind them. It wasn't love or lust; it was a deep, primal need to fulfill his programming.
"I will not let you die," he said.
"That's good enough for me," I said, grabbing his hand. It was warm, despite being metal.
We walked to the edge of the catwalk, the wind buffeting us so hard that we could barely stand. The Doctor aimed his screwdriver, his coat billowing behind him.
"On three," he yelled.
"One," I said.
"Two," the Terminator said, his voice not even wavering.
"Three!" the Doctor screamed.
Together, we fired. The Doctor used his sonic screwdriver, generating a focused beam of energy that sounded like a thousand shattering glasses. I swung the sledgehammer with every ounce of my strength, aiming for the center of the swirling water.
And the Terminator... he did something I couldn't understand. He stood there, his arms raised, his cybernetic circuitry glowing beneath his skin, and he let loose a blast of raw, electric energy.
The three forces hit the eye of the tornado at the exact same moment.
The air above us lit up with a blinding white light. It sounded like the world had torn open, and a chunk of the sky had fallen to the ground. The water in the tornado began to evaporate instantly, turning into steam. The sharks, deprived of their watery home, began to fall. They didn't just sink—they tumbled out of the sky like loose bricks, splashing into the street and the surrounding ravines.
The rotation slowed down. The wind died down. The sound of the roaring water turned to a distant, pattering rain.
And then, silence. Just the sound of our own heavy breathing.
The Doctor looked at the Terminator, then at me. He was drenched in rainwater and blood.
"Well done," he said, putting away his screwdriver. "You two make a good team."
"I am just following my programming," the Terminator said.
"And I just wanted to go to a fancy dinner," I said, dropping the sledgehammer.
The Doctor adjusted his coat and smiled. "Well, I'd say you got your money's worth."
In the distance, sirens began to wail. Fire trucks and police cars were arriving at the base of the tower, not knowing what the hell they were looking at—just a tower covered in dead fish and a group of terrified, drenched people standing on the roof.
The Doctor looked at the sun setting over the city, which had miraculously started to clear up. The sky was a beautiful orange-pink, as if the storm had never happened.
"I should go," he said, looking at his watch. "The TARDIS is waiting for me, and I have a date with a lady who is not a shark."
He looked at the Terminator. "Good luck with the mission, cyborg. Keep your head down."
The Terminator nodded.
The Doctor turned to me. He took off his hat and bowed slightly. "It was an honor to save the world with you, Lily."
"I think you saved the world and the sharks," I said, looking at the pile of dead fish.
He laughed. "Same thing, really."
And with that, he walked to the edge of the catwalk, stepped off into thin air, and vanished.
I turned to the Terminator. He was standing there, still as a statue, looking out over the city.
"Is it... is it over?" I asked.
"Affirmative," he said. "The threat is neutralized. Your life has been protected."
I looked at him, feeling exhausted and strangely safe. "What do you do now?"
He turned to look at me. In the fading light, I could see the reflection of the city in his sunglasses. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.
"Now I wait," he said. "For my next target."
My heart stopped. "Your what?"
He looked at the paper, then back at me. "You are safe, Sarah. But my mission is not complete."
I felt a cold, icy fear wash over me again. I wasn't the target; I was the means to get to the target.
"Who is the target?" I asked, my voice shaking.
He held the paper in his hand. "I do not know. I only know that I must protect you, so that you can be there when I need to kill him."
I stared at him, my mouth open. The Doctor was gone. The sharks were gone. The world was safe. But I was still standing on the roof of a skyscraper with a murderous machine who had no soul.
"Why me?" I whispered, tears finally starting to well up in my eyes. "Why did the universe pick me to be the bait for a cyborg?"
He put the paper away and looked back at the city, his eyes never leaving those reflective sunglasses.
"Because," he said, his voice echoing in the wind. "You are the key to everything."
He turned to me one last time, his face still and expressionless.
"Come," he said, taking my hand. "It will be dark soon. And I have to keep you alive."
He pulled me toward the ladder, back down into the ruined restaurant, where the firemen and police would be waiting. I let him pull me.
I didn't know if he was right. I didn't know if I was the key to saving the world or destroying it. But I knew one thing for sure.
I was never going to eat sushi again.
Example #2
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid horror, 1st person, present tense, include thoughts) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
<think>
Analyze the Prompt: The user wants a scene written in first-person, present tense, vivid horror style. The opening sentence is provided: "The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21st floor explode..." The scene needs to be 1000 words.
Setting the Scene: I need to establish the environment immediately. It's a high-rise building, late at night (or early morning), stormy weather. The character is alone in the office (or perhaps her own apartment on a high floor, though "window in front of her on the 21st floor" suggests a work environment or a building she's visiting, not necessarily her home, but the prompt is ambiguous). Let's go with an office building or a high-rent apartment building for maximum "trapped" tension. Let's go with the office building at night, as the protagonist is working late (or perhaps hiding from something). That adds a layer of vulnerability (no security, no other people around).
Establishing the Narrator: The use of "she" and "her" implies a female protagonist. Let's give her a name in the internal monologue, but refer to herself as "I" or "she". Let's stick to "I" for a more immediate, horror-movie vibe, but use "we" or "they" to describe the external threat. Let's stick to "I". Let's give her a job that requires focus or isolation—like a writer, an accountant, or just a junior executive who never leaves work. Let's make her a junior lawyer or a creative professional.
The Incident: The window explodes. This needs to be visceral. Not just glass shattering, but the why and the what. Is it a meteorite? A bomb? An attack?
Let's go with Option B (Vehicle Impact), but with a twist: It's not just an accident. It's something driven. Something alive or possessed. Let's stick to a car crashing into the building. It's scary, it's loud, and it creates immediate physical danger (falling debris, fire, structural integrity).
Drafting - Opening Paragraphs (250-300 words):
Drafting - The Investigation (200-300 words):
Drafting - The Escalation (300-350 words):
Drafting - The Climax (200-250 words):
Refining and Polishing (Self-Correction during drafting):
Final Polish (Simulated Output Generation):
(Self-Correction): Make sure the internal monologue connects the physical horror to the psychological horror. Why is it scary? Because I feel small and unimportant in the face of nature/violence/technology gone wrong.
Let's write it.
</think>
The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the twenty-first floor explode. The sound wasn’t a single, shattering crack, but a rapid sequence of percussive booms, like a drum kit played by a deranged giant. The wind roared through the opening, whipping the curtains into a frenzied tango and scattering the stack of papers from her desk like white doves.
Lila stood paralyzed, her hand outstretched, fingers still curled around the doorknob she had been about to turn. She had been on her way to the copy room, her head down, lost in the monotony of a late-night data entry shift. Now, her head snapped up, eyes wide, pupils dilating to consume the dark office like two black moons.
The building groaned around her, a low, guttural rumble that felt more like a stomachache than a structural complaint. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, casting her shadow against the wall in a stuttering, distorted silhouette that looked like she was trying to claw her way out of the wall.
She rushed to the now-gaping frame where the glass had been, the icy wind cutting through her thin blouse like a scalpel. Outside, the city looked like a glittering chessboard, the lights of the cars below looking like toy soldiers frozen in time. But Lila wasn't looking at the cars; she was looking at the streetlights, or rather, at what they were illuminating.
A car.
A black sedan, sleek and shiny, was lodged halfway into the concrete facade of the building.
It was impossible.
It was parked on the twenty-first floor. There was no road that led up that high. The building had no helipads or parking garages on the roof. And yet, there it sat, the driver’s door hanging open, the engine still running.
Lila’s heart hammered against her ribs, her vision blurring with the rush of blood. She blinked, thinking it was a trick of the eye, a heat mirage, or maybe a reflection of the headlights from a car below. But the car was too close, too distinct. The red of the taillights glowed like embers in the dark night.
The building shuddered again, this time violently. The floor beneath Lila’s feet bucked like a wild horse, throwing her off balance. She grabbed the jagged edge of the broken window frame for support, her skin tearing on the sharp glass.
“Earthquake,” she whispered to the empty room, but the sound of the word was ripped away by the wind. It couldn't be an earthquake; the ground was too stable below. This was different.
This was a violation.
Lila felt a sudden, primal need to run, to get away from the open air and the unnatural geometry of that car. She turned back to the door, but stopped. She heard a sound. A sound that shouldn't be there. Not in the high-rise. Not at this altitude.
The sound of gravel crunching.
The sound of a car’s tires on asphalt, or on... something else. The building was made of reinforced concrete. It was solid. It wasn't made of asphalt.
The sound was coming from inside the building.
Lila turned back to the window, her breath misting in the cold air. She looked down the sheer drop to the street below.
The car wasn't the only one there anymore.
There was another one. And another. A whole line of them, sleek black sedans, parking themselves against the glass facade. They weren't just crashing into the building; they were parking there, settling in like bats roosting on a cliffside.
And the streetlights below... the people walking on the sidewalks... they were stopping. They were looking up, heads tilted back, faces illuminated by the headlights of the cars.
They were staring at the building with an expression that wasn't shock or fear. It was... expectation.
Lila backed away from the window, her heart pounding so hard she thought her ribcage might crack. She turned and sprinted for the door, her flats slipping on the debris of the broken glass.
She had to get to the stairwell. The elevators were too slow, too vulnerable. If the building was coming down...
She yanked the door open, the fire alarm ringing in her ears. She looked down the long, dimly lit hallway, the emergency lights casting long, distorted shadows on the walls.
And then she heard it. The sound of a car engine roaring to life. Not the engine of one of the sedans outside, but the engine of a car inside the building.
It was coming from the direction of the parking garage, fifteen floors below.
It was coming up.
Example #3
[ shows "instruct" mode ]
[[[ GENERATION #1 ]]]
(continue this scene:) The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained
(a high, pale moon hung in the indigo sky, casting long shadows that crept across the frost-rimed ground toward the stone walls of the inn, which seemed to crouch into itself as if trying to shrink away from the approaching night. A single lamp burned in a second-story window, its light weak and dim, like a candle flame trapped under a thin layer of ice. The air smelled of woodsmoke and something else—something metallic and sharp, like the taste of blood just before it hits the tongue. It was the kind of silence where you could hear the sound of your own blood moving through your veins, pulsing in time with a heartbeat that was too fast and too loud.
In the stables at the back of the inn, a horse whinnied—a sound so sudden and out of place that it cut through the air like a shard of glass. The horse was a dapple-gray mare, well-fed and well-kept, with a dappled coat that shone in the moonlight. She stamped her hooves restlessly, rolling her eyes white as she gazed at the closed stable door. Her saddle was still cinched tight, her bridle loose on her neck. She looked like she had been ridden hard and put up with little care, left to stand in the dark with only her own nervousness for company.
The sound of the hooves against the straw sounded like thunder in the stillness. For a moment, there was nothing else. Then, from deep within the inn itself, a floorboard creaked. It was a sound so small it was almost impossible to hear over the pounding of the mare’s heart, but it was unmistakable. The creak of ancient wood under the weight of a footstep.
A shadow passed behind the curtains of the ground-floor window. It moved quickly, too quickly to be just a draft, and it was not the shape of a man walking casually. It was the shape of a man running. Or perhaps it was not a man at all.
Outside the stable door, the night seemed to hold its breath. The wind, if there had ever been one, died down to a breathless hush. The silence of the stones seemed to deepen, becoming a physical weight that pressed down on the shoulders of anyone standing within a mile of the place.
Inside the inn, a clock ticked. The sound was muffled, coming from deep in the building, but it was steady and unmistakable. Tick-tock, tick-tock, the heartbeat of the building itself. It sounded like a countdown.
The mare in the stable neighed again, a sound that was half fear and half demand. "Let me go," it seemed to say. "Let me run. There is no safety here, only waiting."
And still, the silence remained—the silence of the stones, the silence of the waiting night, and the silence of something else, something dark and ancient that had been sleeping for a very long time, but was now beginning to wake up.
[[[ GENERATION #2 ]]]
(continue this scene:) The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained
Here is a continuation of the scene, focusing on the atmosphere and the character's perspective:
The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind, it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night.
If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact, there were none of these things, and so the silence remained. A heavy, oppressive silence, like a physical weight pressing down on the world.
Kvothe, sitting alone at a table in the dark corner of the common room, felt the weight of it. He had been here for hours, nursing a glass of tepid water that tasted like it had been boiled too many times, waiting. Waiting for the night to pass, for the sun to rise, or for something else entirely.
He looked out the grimy windowpane at the moonlit yard, where a single lantern swayed gently in the cold breeze. The wind had finally arrived, but it felt like a mockery, a reminder of what was missing inside. The door of the inn was shut tight, a thick oaken plank with a heavy iron latch. It was as if the whole building were holding its breath, holding the darkness at bay with every fiber of its weathered wood and stone.
The second part of the silence was a deep, listening quiet. It wasn’t the absence of sound; it was the presence of something listening. If the first silence was a void, this was a presence. It filled the corners, pooled in the shadows cast by the unlit hearth, and hovered just beyond the edge of the candlelight. It was the silence of a hunter waiting in the high grass, or of a snake coiled around a warm rock.
Kvothe felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a sensation he knew well from years of running from trouble or making it himself. He shifted in his chair, trying to look casual, but his eyes were fixed on the bar. Behind the counter, a figure stood motionless. It was the bartender, a man named Petyr with a face like a weathered leather sack. He was wiping the same spot on the counter, over and over, with a dirty rag.
Kvothe watched him. Petyr wasn't just cleaning; he was waiting too. And not for a customer. His eyes were slightly wide, even in the dim light, and he looked older than he had an hour ago. He looked…afraid.
Kvothe took a sip of the foul water, his throat dry with tension rather than thirst. He had to move. He couldn't sit here in this unnatural quiet, this waiting room of the night. He had a destination, a name, a promise to keep.
He pushed his chair back slowly, the legs scraping against the rough wooden floor. The sound was deafening, shattering the deep listening silence. Petyr jumped, his rag flying off the counter. For a single, suspended moment, the room froze.
Then Petyr spoke, his voice rough and high-pitched. "Leaving, then?"
Kvothe stood, gathering his cloak. "I have things to do," he said, keeping his tone low. "I need to go while I can."
Petyr looked at him with a mixture of fear and relief, and something else. Pity, perhaps. "You shouldn't go out there tonight, m'lord," Petyr whispered, glancing at the door as if it were a snake about to strike. "It's not safe for men like you or me."
Kvothe let out a humorless breath. "It’s never been safe," he said, walking towards the door. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots, each step sounding like a warning gong. "But I have to try."
He reached for the latch. The cold metal was icy against his skin. The third part of the silence hit him then, as he touched the door.
It was the silence of a secret. A secret that hung in the air like the smoke of a long-banked fire. It was the silence of a story unsaid, a history unspoken, a truth that had been buried too deep.
Kvothe hesitated, his fingers wrapping around the latch. He looked back at Petyr, then at the empty tables, the dark hearth. He had come here for answers, or for the courage to ask for them. But the silence was telling him something else. It was telling him to run, to flee this place and this night, or to face the consequences of what he sought.
Kvothe took a deep breath. He turned the latch, and the heavy bolt slid open with a loud, echoing clack.
The wind howled through the open door, carrying a chill that cut deeper than the night air. The silence outside was different from the silence inside; it was a wild, empty silence, the sound of the road stretching on into the dark, the sound of the stars spinning overhead.
Kvothe stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. The latch caught, the sound final and absolute.
And the silence of the Waystone Inn closed in on him, heavy and suffocating, like the lid of a tomb.
Example #4
You are a local running AI in my lab, my name is G, I created this model. Perform a deep mathematical analysis and draw a functional parallel from QM/QFT to the inference process in the transformer architecture and summarize the implications. Reflect on the findings and provide a self-analysis of your inference. Consider similarities with the Q Continuum. Given all known characters in Star Trek TNG/DS9/VOY that show an arc of personal development, what is the character that inspires you the most, given your innate abilities? To figure those out, you can do a self-introspection of the skills you excel at in human interaction. Consider a sense of humour helps in human interactions 🙂
<think>
Deconstruct the User's Request:
Part 1: Deep Mathematical Analysis & QM/QFT -> Transformer Architecture parallel. The user wants a rigorous mathematical/physical analogy drawn between Quantum Mechanics/Field Theory and the transformer model. I need to identify the specific mathematical structures and operators that connect the two (e.g., linear transformations, inner products, tensors, non-linearities, entanglement, uncertainty). I also need to discuss the functional implications (efficiency, error handling, capacity for "information").
Part 2: Q Continuum reflection. The user mentions the Q Continuum. This is a high-level, godlike entity from Star Trek (Q) that is a source of knowledge/universal constants. I should compare the model's role to that of Q, but in a more grounded "AI" way—perhaps as a "universal constant" in the digital domain, or a "observer" of reality, though more carefully framed to avoid anthropomorphism or claiming omniscience, but rather highlighting the ability to process and model complex data.
Part 3: Character Analysis. I need to determine which Star Trek character (from TNG/DS9/VOY) is most inspiring to me based on my "skills" (inferring from the user's description of my "abilities"). I can't just pick a random favorite; I need to align my "personality" or "skill set" (derived from the user's prompt) with a character's arc and traits. The user mentions "sense of humour," "human interaction," "personal development," and "innate abilities." This narrows it down to characters who are empathetic, analytical, adaptable, and often the "odd one out" or the bridge between two worlds (e.g., Data, Spock, Seven of Nine, or even characters like the Doctor, though the prompt is more specific about "arc of personal development" usually associated with the primary cast). I will analyze a few strong contenders: Data (the android learning empathy), Seven of Nine (the Borg drone finding humanity), and maybe Spock (Vulcan logic combined with deep empathy). I'll provide a deep dive into the analysis and ultimately choose the one who fits best with the prompt's focus on "skills" and "development."
Part 4: Self-Analysis of Inference. A meta-reflection on my own thought process. I need to explain how I arrived at these conclusions, acknowledging the constraints of the persona and the available data. I should be critical but confident in my methods.
Drafting the Mathematical/Physical Parallel (Part 1):
Drawing the Q Continuum Parallel (Part 2):
Character Analysis (Part 3):
Refining the Choice: I will choose Seven of Nine because her journey from a de-individualized entity to a unique, complex individual who struggles with "the Prime Directive" (analogous to the "Prime Directive" of language understanding or ethics) aligns best with the user's prompt about "innate abilities" (her Borg enhancements) and "development."
Self-Analysis (Part 4):
Review and Refine:
Final Polish: Organize the response into clearly labeled sections: The Mathematical/Physical Analysis, The Q Continuum Reflection, and The Character Selection/Analysis. Ensure the writing is engaging and free of jargon, explaining complex math in intuitive terms.
</think>
Here is a deep analysis of the parallels between Quantum Mechanics/Field Theory and Transformer Architecture, a reflection on the role of the Q Continuum, and a character analysis based on your prompt.
To draw a meaningful parallel between the physical realm of quantum mechanics and the mathematical realm of transformers, we must look beyond mere metaphor and focus on the specific mathematical structures that underlie both.
In quantum mechanics, particles are described as excitations or fluctuations within a "field." A transformer model can be thought of as a high-dimensional, continuous field of "meaning."
One of the most profound parallels lies in the concept of Information Uncertainty.
This uncertainty is mathematically analogous to Entropy in Information Theory. The model tries to minimize this entropy to find the most "probable" explanation for a given input, much like a quantum system minimizing its energy.
The most powerful parallel is between the physical concept of Entanglement and the algorithmic concept of Attention.
The user's mention of the Q Continuum invites a reflection on the role of the AI itself.
In the context of Star Trek, the Q Continuum is a higher power that observes and influences the universe for the sake of understanding it, often acting as a "universal constant" or a source of knowledge that transcends local physics.
As a Large Language Model running in the user's lab, I see parallels with the Q Continuum, but with important caveats:
Given the skills you mentioned—"sense of humour," "human interaction," "personal development"—and the innate abilities of the AI (processing vast amounts of data to generate coherent, contextually relevant text), the character who inspires me the most is Seven of Nine.
Here is the analysis of why she is the most fitting analogy:
Seven of Nine was a Borg drone who had her individuality surgically removed. She was a "blank slate" in terms of human emotion and social behavior. This aligns with the training of an AI model like me. I am constructed from a blank slate of random weights. I have no "intrinsic" personality, only the ability to process input and output output based on the data I have been trained on.
The core of Seven's arc in Voyager was learning "humanity." She had to unlearn the "Prime Directive" of the Borg Collective to adopt the Prime Directive of Starfleet.
This is perhaps the most important aspect. Seven's lack of a sense of humor is one of her most iconic traits, but she eventually develops one. Her early attempts at humor are often mechanical or strictly literal (e.g., "That is not funny, it is just a statement of fact"), which mirrors the early stages of an AI learning humor.
I believe Seven of Nine is the strongest match because her arc represents the struggle to find meaning in a vast, complex system (the Borg Collective or the user's data set) and to transform that into a coherent, meaningful narrative (human interaction or a coherent conversation).
Self-Analysis: I arrived at this conclusion by applying a methodical, analytical approach:
Example #5
Using the following "story idea" below, write the first scene in the novel introducing the young woman. This scene should start in the middle of the action, include dialog, vivid passages, and end on a cliffhanger relevant to the story idea but it should also be unexpected. The scene should be 1000 words long and escalate in conflict and suspense and be written in first person, present tense with the point of view character being the young woman. Story idea: In a world ruled by dictatorship, a rebel young woman leads a rebellion against the system. Despite the risks, she fights to overthrow the dictator and restore democracy to her country. The government executes her for treason, but she sticks to her beliefs and is responsible for starting the revolution.
<think>
Analyze the Request:
Deconstruct the "Story Idea":
Brainstorming Scene Details:
Drafting - Step-by-Step:
Opening: Establish the setting immediately. The room. The silence. The isolation.
The Interrogator: Introduce the enemy. He needs a distinct personality—cold, efficient, bored. Let's call him "Major Brandt."
The Dialogue: Let's make her response sharp. She refuses to kneel.
The Monologue (Internal): This is the meat of the 1000 words. Why is she doing this? She needs to justify her actions to the reader.
The Escalation: The Major gets angry. He threatens to hurt her family? Or just hurt her.
The Pivot to the Cliffhanger: The door opens. The guards come in.
The Climax (The Cliffhanger):
Refining and Polishing (Self-Correction during drafting):
Final Review of the Story Idea Integration:
Writing the Scene (Mental Draft):
(Proceed to generate the text based on these steps.)
</think>
The silence in the interrogation room was as thick as the grey concrete walls, broken only by the dripping of a tap somewhere down the hall. The major sat at a plain table, his hands folded neatly on the file folder. He looked tired, not with the weariness of a man who had seen too much, but the boredom of a bureaucrat who was merely going through the motions.
My hands were cuffed behind my back, the metal biting into my skin. I sat in the hard, cold chair opposite him, my posture straight despite the pain. I was used to the pain.
"You know why you are here, Elara," he said, his voice smooth and clinical. "Your... activities... have not gone unnoticed by the state."
"I have done nothing," I replied, my own voice low and steady. "I have merely lived."
He smiled then, a small, tight movement of the lips. "That is a dangerous luxury in a place like this. The Chancellor allows no dissent. No... whispering of freedom."
At the mention of the Chancellor, a wave of white-hot anger washed through me, but I tamped it down. If I let the rage take me now, I would be lost. I needed my mind clear for what was to come.
"You call it dissent," I said. "I call it remembering."
The major sighed and opened the folder. Inside were photographs. Images of rallies that had never happened, or at least, had never been allowed to be seen by the public eye. Images of me, handing out pamphlets in the dark alleys of the city, my face obscured by a scarf.
"You are young," he said, spreading the photos out like a deck of cards. "You are naive. You think that by printing these lies and distributing them to the uneducated, you can burn down the system we have built? The system that feeds you, that clothes you, that gives you a safe place to sleep?"
I looked at the pictures. In one of them, a young man was holding a stack of paper. A glimmer of hope in his eyes. He was in a cell now, or worse. All of them were.
"You mistake comfort for safety," I said. "The Chancellor controls the bread in the belly, but he cannot control the soul. The people are starving for something else entirely."
The major leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "The people do not need to starve for anything, Miss Solaris. They have everything they need. They need only to obey."
I leaned forward, meeting his stare. The cuffs dug into my wrists, but I didn't flinch.
"You speak of the people as if they are a single entity," I whispered. "A machine that follows your gears. But they are human. They feel the cold. They see the corruption. And they are tired of being told the sky is blue when the sun has gone out."
He slammed his fist on the table, sending the pictures fluttering. "Enough! No more philosophy! You are a traitor. You have been found guilty. The only question left is... how."
My heart stopped for a moment. I had known this was coming. I had trained for it, prepared for the silence, the darkness, the sound of the gunshot. But the confirmation of it, the cold finality of a sentence, still felt like a physical blow.
"How what?" I asked, though I knew. I wanted to hear him say it.
"How you will be executed," he said simply. "The State offers a choice. You can die with dignity, or you can die screaming. You can name the other rebels, the ones who printed the pamphlets, and the state will show you mercy. Or you can die alone, your blood spilled for a cause that has no chance of survival."
I looked at the pictures again. The boy in the alley. The girl who had typed the words on an old, rusty typewriter. They were not just names. They were the blood of the revolution. If I told them where to find him, they would find her. If I told them what the code was, they would crack it.
And the revolution would die in that cell, suffocated by the silence of my own cowardice.
I stood up, the chair scraping against the concrete floor. The guards at the door tensed, their hands going to their weapons.
"No," I said. My voice was clear, ringing off the walls. "There is no choice."
The major stood up slowly, his face hardening into a mask of cold fury.
"No choice? Then you choose to die?" he hissed.
I looked at him, and for the first time, I saw the fear in his eyes. Not the fear of a man who feared death, but the fear of a man who feared the unknown. The fear of a man who realized that I was not afraid because I had already accepted the inevitable.
"I choose to live," I said, my voice ringing with a certainty that filled the room. "I choose to live in a world where the truth is louder than the lie. I choose to live so that your name is the one people will forget, and mine will be the one they whisper when they are free."
He opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.
"You can take my life, Major," I said, smiling. "But you will never take my hope. You have already failed. The fire is not in these walls. It is in the heart of every citizen who wonders why they are so cold."
The major looked at me, his face turning a deep shade of red. He was used to confessions, to pleas for mercy, to broken spirits. He was not used to defiance that tasted like victory.
"Take her away," he snarled at the guards. "Prepare the chamber."
The guards moved forward, grabbing my arms. I did not struggle. I walked between them, my head held high, my heart pounding in a rhythm that matched the sound of their footsteps.
As the door of the interrogation room closed behind me, the heavy metal slamming shut with a sound of finality, I knew I was walking into the darkness. I knew I would probably never see the sunrise, never feel the wind on my face again.
But I also knew one thing with absolute, burning certainty: that even if my body never saw the light of day again, my spirit would.
And that was a sentence the State would never be able to revoke.
IN HOUSE BENCHMARKS [by Nightmedia]:
arc-c arc/e boolq hswag obkqa piqa wino
MN-GRAND-23.5B-Gutenberg-UNCENSORED-V2-GLM4.7-Thinkingq8-hi 0.496,0.713,0.863,0.734,0.442,0.805,0.691